


Wounded and Bleeding

by gaylock



Series: Hurting Together [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Disguise, F/M, Hurting Together, John Works For Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is undercover, Spy John Watson, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:34:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock





	Wounded and Bleeding

Sherlock Holmes does not expect to see John again. Not while the soldier is still on the job. John was too angry when he left Sherlock's cell to make another visit, and Sherlock dares not use what little power he has left to spy where it might catch his brother's notice.

And yet, one day, perhaps two – it is difficult to mark time when Sherlock cannot measure it by the people he watches in London through his laptop by hacking into CCTV – and John Watson is once more standing on the other side of the thin line of iron bars that Sherlock allows to come between him and freedom.

"I asked Mr. Holmes about the whole British Government thing," John says without preamble. Sherlock pulls himself to his feet, pushing his hair back from his face with one long fingered hand.

"And?" Sherlock prompts.

John purses his lips, a shrewdness in his expression that Sherlock has come to admire. On this day John is wearing another of what he calls his 'mission suits'. The cut of the jacket emphasizes his shoulders and the broadness of his chest. As always, Sherlock is fascinated by the sprawling scar that he cannot see. (What would it feel like? Taste like?)

John's shirt is red.

"And he told me that officially he worked for the government in a minor capacity."

"And unofficially?"

John grinned. "That it would take no more than a single word to topple entire governments, and that if he wanted to, he could take over and remake the world as his empire."

"That is a bit exaggerated."

John raises a brow, crossing his arms. "So he couldn't rule the entire world if he wanted to?"

Sherlock smiles, amused. "Oh no, he most certainly could. In fact, I've had the pleasure of watching him topple various corrupt governments. It's just that my brother is insufferably lazy; he'd neither have the patience nor the energy to rule the world. He'd most likely have someone do it for him."

For a moment, John gapes, and Sherlock relishes the expression. It gives him no small joy to have put it on John's face. Then John groans and rubs at the space between his eyes with the edge of one finger. "Fuck me sideways," John mutters.

Sherlock is sure that he is not meant to hear, but he answers anyway. "Gladly. You will have to come in here, however." He points at the bars that stand across the threshold of his iron prison. "I cannot reach you all the way over there."

And now John breaks into laughter, and Sherlock basks in it. John's laughter is different than Sherlocks. Just as brittle, perhaps. Sharp, certainly. But where Sherlock's is filled with ice and daggers that yearn to draw blood, John's is broken glass. He hurts only himself.

Interesting.

(How can one person look so normal, and be so interesting?)

"How is this my life?" John concludes at the end of his laughing fit. "Are we really doing this right now? I'm in a high security MI5 base, talking to the imprisoned brother of my boss, and he's hitting on me."

John smiles, and Sherlock sees himself in the curve of those lips, the wicked flash of white teeth. He could love John Watson, he realizes. If he allowed himself, he could love this secret agent. He has ever been a vain creature, and John is as close a mirror as Sherlock has ever found, even observant as he is. Never has he wished so much for the power to control time – to take back his first meeting with John, to make it something sweeter. (And yet even as he has the thought he knows he would not, would not, for he values John as an enemy just as much as he wants him for a priest, a sacrifice on the altar of Sherlock Holmes.)

John clears his throat, and Sherlock is pulled from his thoughts. He has been staring too long at the line of John's neck, at the fine strands of his hair. He meets John's eyes – blue eyes that see and have seen far too much, more than any average person should – and his breath catches. He is truly a sinful, evil thing, for if he was given a choice in this moment, he would take John as his own, damn his heritage, his monstrous nature, his honor and the rest. He does not expect to be loved again, but he wants it with a ferocity that frightens him.

His first love, long estranged even before Sherlock's true nature came to light, had taken the news of Sherlock's diagnosis as reason to sever their connection. It seems that staying tied to a man for use of his title is no longer appealing when his nature was no longer human, but sociopathic. Her body had been sullied by a monster, masquerading as a man. She was disgusted by him. Sherlock has no cause to think others will not react the same.

He cannot blame them for it. He disgusts himself most of all.

As if he can read the trend of Sherlock's thoughts, Watson asks, "What's with the complete detachment? And the knowing a persons whole life story."

Ah, of course. John is a fairly new agent and therefore does not know the true nature of the Holmes'. The weavers of fate are cruel indeed, that they will not spare Sherlock this last indignity.

He must say it aloud then.

"I'm a sociopath, feelings are overrated. And I deduce people, it's what I do. My brother can also do it."

He braces himself.

"Brilliant," John says.

Sherlock blinks, watching John. John watches him back.

"I do not understand you," Sherlock admits at last.

But he wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He would devote more years to it than John has left to live.

"That makes two of us," John says. He waves. "See you later, Holmes."

And then he is gone.

-l-

John does not visit again.

Sherlock tries to pass the time by watching the people of London, but he finds himself easily bored by most of the humans that fall into his view. John is beyond his sight for the moment, as is his ex, Janine. The other people he knows of are all rather bland in comparison. Briefly he looks in on his former landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but the woman spends an inordinate amount of time simply sitting with friends, drinking tea and watching bad soaps. It isn't very entertaining.

So Sherlock takes to watching over John's empire for him. The blonde haired woman John has taken as consort resides over John's estate well. She is benevolent and competent, and Sherlock wishes such a companion for his own. He has observed her haranguing John, challenging him, but all with an eye to loyalty and service. If Sherlock had ever had even one friend or servant such as her, perhaps his lot would have gone very differently indeed. He certainly wouldn't have ended up here.

He wishes to know her name, but the hacked CCTV footage provides no sound. So he is forced to observe closely, to wait for it to be written down where he may see.

By the time Sherlock knows that the woman is called Mary Morstan, he has come to admire her as one might admire the maiden in a tale. She is not real to him, but rather an ideal. The perfect queen, full of poise and confidence and strength. He may admire, but never touch her.

And then John returns to London and passes into Sherlock's sight again, and he touches her. John touches Mary, and Sherlock shatters his bathroom mirror with his fists, beating the pieces into the floor until crimson blood drips between his fingers.

No one hears him scream, or if they do, they pay it no mind. But why should they? He is an insane sociopath who could leave his prison any time, and yet chooses to stay.

For the first time, he accepts that the reason he stays is because he has nowhere else to go.

-l-

Sherlock watches Irene after that. The Woman is just as interesting as John, in her way, and twice as vicious. She is not a mirror image, but she is enough. She has to be.

Irene spends much time pretending to be that which she is not. If she were a genius, she would be truly magnificent, enough to rival even Mycroft. In battle she is like a whip, sinuously sliding around her opponents, leaving a sting in her wake. Sherlock believes she would appreciate the comparison; the whip was her favourite tool to use in her recreational occupation.

Once, when Sherlock is watching, she is almost found out by an enemy whose forces she has infiltrated. Sherlock hacks into their security system, giving her the diversion needed to get away.

She is his enemy, and she will not die unless he wishes it.

-l-

Sherlock cannot avoid seeing John. So long as he watches Irene, and John's team continues to work with her, John will pass into his sight.

Every glimpse reminds Sherlock of what he cannot have, and brings rage up to choke him. Not even the sight of Mycroft invokes such anger, all the more twisted for the fact that it is irrational. It is not jealousy of Mary. No, it is not jealousy. He has never been as jealous as his classmates in Uni would paint him. (Sebastian Wilkes and Victor Trevor had been the worst of the lot).

He is angry. He is angry at Fate, at Mycroft who brought this upon him, at himself for being unable to escape it.

He looks at the iron bars in front of him.

(Unwilling to escape it.)

And yet, even in his white hot rage, he is grateful too. He is grateful that John Watson, his high priest, his capturer, has all the love that Sherlock has missed.

-l-

It is inevitable that Sherlock starts watching John again. It happens quietly. There is no near death, no crash through the air to snatch his attention. John merely looks at Irene and smiles the smile that says I am Sherlock Holmes's, and Sherlock is drawn in.

He watches John drink, and he watches him fight. He watches him eat and sleep, and doesn't look away when John wakes up screaming from a nightmare. He watches him love Mary, and does not turn away when they fuck, something harder and rougher than Sherlock thought the Queen of the Watson Estate capable of.

And two years, perhaps three (Sherlock counts by the number of people John has saved, the people Irene has killed, and the times Mrs. Hudson has her knitting group over for tea) after John last stood before Sherlock, Sherlock watches Mary weep and leave with a bag in hand, and John tear his home apart, a whirlwind of destruction.

Sherlock Holmes once existed only to gather intel for his brother, to watch over the Holmes Estate and to try to please Mummy.

Then he fell through time and space, floating, lost in a rift, and nearly died a thousand times. His blood was thick with drugs and booze, and his mind adrift in a sea of chaotic thoughts. His next purpose was given to him by a madman, a titan, a being of oblivion and power too great for Sherlock to oppose, and Sherlock's purpose then was to play the part he was assigned until an escape could be made.

In all things, who he ultimately served was himself.

And then nothing.

He sits in a cell, and he watches a handful of people stumble their way through their lives. But now his John is smashing and destroying the life he has made, and Mary Morstan is gone. Irene is fine, as she always is and always will be, but maybe she'd be better off with a little something to fight against.

And he? He is Sherlock, and he is once more burdened with purpose. (Still self-serving. Always selfish.)

It takes a week to construct a believable hologram of himself, building it layer by layer as he once did with his more complex disguises. In that time, John has drunk himself into a stupor twice, and broken all his most expensive crystal glasses. It takes a full month to hack fully into the MI5 base security and change the camera feeds. He spends a few days hacking into the most secure files and downloading them all to his laptop, to peruse at a later date.

At last, Sherlock is ready. He goes to the line of iron bars blocking his way to freedom.

And he steps right through them when the previously locked door opens with a satisfying click. 


End file.
